Heretic's Reckoning
by SometimesAGreatNotion
Summary: On a conquered world the war for truth begins. Secular doctrine will stare into the eyes of creation and an empire will be changed forever.
1. The Hands of Traitors

Rotting plasterboard and dripping pipes. Behind the walls the one constant of the universe scurried away from the heavy tread of the approaching giant. Clacking and whirring, the beast's power armour snarled with a near guttural hatred. Its every movement promising the possibility of unspent violence. He'd tracked the creature here, following its blood trail through the snow and ice that blanketed this portion of the city. In the distance he could hear the crack of las fire and low rumble of treads, but otherwise silence reigned in the abandoned tenement.

In his gauntleted hand the warrior held a deactivated chain sword, a scabbed and ravaged instrument that he'd carried on a thousand battlefields. He could feel the machine spirit within clawing at the activation stud as it sensed their prey was near. The hall he had just turned into terminated in a dead end and the mangled face beneath the Mark II helm allowed itself a small smile. _Clever._

The monster erupted from the wall directly behind him, the spines along its back hackled and jaws set wide. In a fluid movement belied by his bulk the Astartes turned on the spot and parried the thing's head with a mighty blow, while simultaneously gunning his sword into a frenzy. Unperturbed the creature came on, its distended and muscled arms lashing out in an uncontrolled fury. Ignoring the dripping gash in its mottled, grey flesh it lashed out at the warrior's face guard and was instead met by the roaring impediment of biting teeth.

Screaming, it attempted to disengage even as the sword cut deeper and deeper. Severing corded muscle and gushing arteries the bestial roar dissipated as shock overtook the thing's mind. Even as the Nails clamped down ever tighter the briefing the World Eater had endured three hours before remained fixed in his damaged mind. _Kroot. Xeno warrior species._ Its arm now completed severed the creature's lifeblood was fast leaking away, yet the feral hatred in its eyes was unmistakable. Not intelligent, but a pure, depthless, animalistic hunger that the warrior could appreciate. _Krootox variant. Evolutionary dead end._ The sport all but done the warrior drew his bolt pistol and disintegrated the creature's skull. He'd seen more disappointing failures.

Outside, he could hear the sound of boots crunching in the snow. At least a companys worth if not more. The Nails purred with excitement as his body once again prepared itself for combat, flooding his system with combat stimms and focus enhancers. Advancing out into the yard he faced the guns of over a hundred mortals, who instead of fleeing, boldly held their ground. The warrior smiled again, his face muscles aching with the effort as every man bowed in reverence. The Warband of the Wise, Lord Khost of the Seventh Legion saluted their master.

In the front rank there stood a man apart, a puny thing when compared to the towering bulk which was framed in the tenement doorway. All the same he advanced, gripping his defiled melta gun to his chest plating. Each piece was wrought from ceramite in amusing mimicry of his master, yet on closer inspection one could see the broken heraldry of a dozen Imperial factions. Despite this the low hum and glowing cables rigged up to his power pack indicated life as he to went down on one knee.

"My lord, this area is now secured and we may accelerate our landing." Khost regarded his adjutant for a moment longer than was comfortable and then nodded. Relief spread throughout the company, there would be no executions. At now for least. "Tell me Dakar," his voice rumbled from his helmet speakers, "do they resist?" Dakar could hear the pent up anger in his master's voice and knew what he said next could easily reverse any apparent goodwill. "The PDF of this world have surrendered themselves to you, such is their hatred of the alien. They stand ready to shed blood in the name of our sire."

"Be calm Dakar, I can smell your fear over the odour of this place. My choler is my own." Not waiting for a response, Khost walked through the ranks of his men and out onto the street. The vastness of the hive reared up before him, dominating the sprawling shanty district in which he stood. Originally five separate spires, the city was now one amalgamated pyramid of steel and rockcrete. From the highest tower protruded the shield spire, its tendrils of energy anchored to various stations throughout the city to create an umbrella of impenetrable, ever shifting light. In places however, the defence had clearly receded, with large sections of the curtain wall and their accompanying stations having been destroyed.

It was through one such breach that The Wise now looked as the sounds of weapons fire and shelling echoed ominously out of the dust choked maw. This was not the work of the Blood God's servants, the very precision of the strikes proving well beyond the typical derangement of a Khornate worshipper. Nor was it a testament to any other of the Pantheon. No, this was xeno craft and he looked forward to meeting these Tau and their servants on the field of battle.

x

Something was wrong. Shas'O Van'la Keper Kais could feel it in the air as surely as from the report in his hands. Multiple enemy vessels had successfully broken through the planetary blockade and landed forces in the areas surrounding the hive and if the Kor'vattra were to be believed, the situation in orbit was precarious at best. The savagery of the enemy was as perplexing as the suicidality of their assaults. The humans were well known for their numbers and even an almost casual, sacrificial nature, yet this was madness. Wave upon wave of kamikaze fighters had been used to silence the larger fleet carriers while destroyers and other pickets had run amok, abandoning all concept of formation in their haste to engage the enemy.

Dozens had burned under the enfilade of the Tau guns, only to find the larger predators bearing down on them, launching broadsides and boarding actions as they tore the heart out of the defence. For all of this however, the most disturbing aspect was the revelry which the humans and their allies seemed to display. Reports from boarded vessels spoke of terrible arachnid like forms and monstrous beasts, the things of nightmares, butchering their way through the ships' crews. It was wanton slaughter in place of military precision and Keper knew he and his troops would be meeting their like soon enough.

Encamped within an abandoned Munitorium warehouse in the mid-hive, Keper entered what was currently serving as his command centre. Ignoring the dozens of stations and attempts to gain his attention, he instead headed directly for the primary holo map and the men waiting there. "Well?" he demanded.

"We have advanced ..."

"Not far enough," Keper interrupted. "And now we have an enemy landing at our backs and an apparently immovable force to our front." The soldiers around the table exchanged uncomfortable glances, so much so that the single human in the gathering could interpret the usually impenetrably alien features of his comrades. "If I might sir," he said standing forwards, "I think it might be worse than that." Keper regarded the Gue'vesa with a hard stare. The man didn't flinch.

"Go ahead, Gue'vesa'ui Morden."

Tapping in a quick series of commands he brought up a log of documented PDF comms traffic. "Since we've landed we've made it our business to track the assorted Throne forces and their commanders. Despite losses we're still facing an estimated 80,000 men bottled up in the upper-mid and upper hive. Less than three hours ago we stopped receiving any transmissions from 42% of the ranking officers we'd previously marked from the general staff all the way down to colonel." Keper's eyes narrowed.

"Exactly when the enemy launched its assault on the fleet. But how..."

"Sir," Morden interjected, "I believe they're reinforcements summoned by someone in the PDF. Probably cultists dedicated to the Archenemy. This isn't a coincidence. We're not facing two opponents, only one." At that moment, as far as Morden could tell, confusion was the emotion most prevalent in the room. Keper included.

"What makes you believe in such an unlikely scenario?" demanded one of the Shas'el.

Morden tried not to let his frustration show. Few Tau commanders had experience with the forces of Chaos. Hell, given the range of man's enemies it was far from a sure thing most Guardsmen would ever see a pict of, never mind a flesh and blood, soldier of the Ruinous Powers. Calmly, he attempted to explain his reasoning. "Those 42% of officers are dead. They were most likely killed once it became apparent that help had arrived. Probably for refusing to swear allegiance to their new masters. The same thing will have happened in the rank and file. Only there's no way to tell without more detailed communication data." Most of the officers still seemed if not nonplussed, unsure of what he was describing. To them the Imperium was humanity and any further subdivisions an unnecessary complication.

Thankfully, the Shas'O had no such difficulty in redefining the borders of his universe. "There are only two salient points we now need understand from this information," he said, immediately recapturing the audience's attention. "One, we are caught in the grip of a dual fronted and likely coordinated enemy who will seek to exploit their new advantage. And two, that our enemy has changed and should no longer be presumed to act and behave as we have come to expect." He deliberately turned to each man as he spoke, making sure that no one was left unclear.

"You've all seen the reports and various data points from the orbital battle. There is a savagery in their actions that belies all reason and I have a feeling that before we are done, we'll have had to unlearn many of our former preconceived notions of warfare." A few of the Shas'el seemed discomfited by the idea but held their tongues. Surely Tau superiority would see them through this as it had every other engagement, every other war? A crazed rabble of barbarians would be no match for the Mont'Ka.

Looking back to the Gue'vesa Keper nodded his thanks. "Is there anything more you wish to add, Gue'vesa'ui?" Seemingly slightly nervous now, Morden shook his head.

"I'm sorry sir, I'm no expert. The average infantryman of the Throne is purposefully ignorant of such things. All I can tell you is that what little I heard from rumour and snippets of command chatter. The men up in the hive have sold their souls to the gods of the warp. They're damned, 'root and stem' as my commissar used to say and they'll drag us down with them if we give them half the chance." His face, Keper noticed, had turned even whiter while he'd been talking. This he had learned, was rarely a good sign.

"I understand. The Greater Good thanks you for your service in this matter." Keper was about to dismiss them when Morden seemed to remember himself.

"One last thing, something I was told a long time ago." A genuine tremble entered his voice as the command echelon once again turned to listen. "Tell your troops that whatever they do, don't get taken alive."

The entire room seemed to quieten following this dire proclamation and the Shas'O quickly ushered them out lest their nerves be shaken any more than necessary. They marched from the room, some of them already laughing at the superstitious nonsense the Gue'vesa had spouted. So busy were they trying to appear unperturbed they missed the final warning muttered under the man's breath. "By the God-Emperor, don't let them take you alive."


	2. 0730 hours

0730 hours

Trexes was dead. The headless body hung from the ribs of a gutted transport, the skulls which adorned his armour laughing at the brutal irony. The surrounding debris still burned as the man tracked his weapon sight over the gently swinging corpse. Dakar smiled. This campaign had started well. Of all his lord's battle brothers, Dakar had always loathed Trexes the most. An unstable brute who would often spend his free time slaughtering his way through the ship's crew, regardless of how useful they may be; he would not be missed. The Blood God had blessed them by removing his madness from the hunt.

Carefully, he climbed to the lip of the downed transports crater and found the target he'd been tracking for the past hour. From the bottom of the rise, amongst the ruins of yet more wrecked spacecraft, there came the sound of snuffling and tearing meat. Between two twisted bulk heads, hunched over the corpse of one of the pilots, a whip thin yet unnaturally tall creature was tearing strips of flesh from the man's face.

In fascination Dakar watched as the thing would then throw them into the air before snatching them into its beaked mouth. Carefully, he hefted his melta gun and took aim at the Kroot warrior's head. Thumbing the safety off a slight vibration found its way through his armoured hands as the weapon prepared to fire. _All too easy,_ he thought. He pulled the trigger.

The shot went wide as a second xeno appeared to his right and kicked his gun aside. Rearing up before him, the warrior span the dual bladed fighting pole gripped in its right hand and lunged forwards. Cursing, Dakar swung for the alien as the beast below became aware of his presence. Immediately it gave up its feasting and powered up the rise towards him.

Dakar ducked the next blow and the one after that, taking his attacker by surprise with his speed. Dropping his melta, the human drew his sabre and brought it up to parry the Kroot's next series of attacks. Recognising his skill, the xeno unleashed a flurry of jabs and slashes, forcing Dakar back down the rise towards the ruined transport. He could almost hear Trexes laughing. With a roar that would have made his master proud, Dakar batted aside the curved blade that was making a beeline for his face and crashed his fist into the Kroot's torso.

Magnified many times by the fibre bundles in his armour, the blow easily knocked his opponent to the ground were it scrabbled to regain its feet. The heat of battle now coursing through his veins, Dakar brought his sword up above his head to deliver the coup de grace. He would not be denied his kill. A shot rang out and he staggered backwards. All at once the clearing woke up with the shrill sound of high velocity rounds. Caught in an enfilade of pulse weapons fire Dakar tried to rise as shots from every direction knocked him down.

From the surrounding wreckage emerged more Kroot warriors, their skin the coal black of the burned hulls which pockmarked the area. His armour dented, he tried to regain his feet even as the power of each fresh impact drove him back to his knees. Above him, silhouetted in the dawning sun, he could make out his original prey staring down into the crater. They locked eyes and Dakar could feel the thing's contempt, its disregard as it gestured to its brethren.

All at once the shooting ceased. Covered in burns and weeping blood through the joints in his armour Dakar watched as the pack leader brought its rifle to bear. Apparently no more advanced than a musket terminating in a long, curved blade, the blinking lights along the rifle's length revealed its true nature. Twitching uncontrollably as his damaged power armour tried to stand, Dakar did not flinch. His death would honour the Skull Throne as surely as every life he had ever taken in Khorne's righteous name. He spat the blood from his mouth and welcomed his end.

* * *

The mood in the command centre was positively jubilant. At 0300 planetary standard time, Tau strike forces lead by Shas'el Van'la Rayn had successfully attacked and if his reports were to believed, wholly annihilated the enemy's primary beach head. Caught on the ground while unloading their precious cargoes of men and materiel, the mass transport fleet of the Chaos armada had made an easy target for the Shas'el's Battlesuits.

Entire infantry battalions had been trapped within their landers as they were immolated by plasma cannons, rail guns and rocket pods. All that was left afterwards being burned remains and buckled metal. It was being hailed a singular victory and more importantly, a complete justification of the Tau Mont'ka way of war. Stood on one of the wrought iron gantries which overhung the command centre below, Gue'vesa'ui Morden was not so sure.

Reading through Rayn's after action, something was still niggling at him. Putting aside his own wounded pride at apparently being so wrong about the threat the Archenemy posed, something else wasn't adding up. Rubbing his sore eyes he tried to refocus on the words in front of him. "It was a remarkable victory, wouldn't you say Gue'vesa'ui?"

Taken aback, Morden snapped to attention as Shas'O Keper approached. The general waved him down and the human relaxed a little, albeit Keper could still see the tautness in his frame and the tightness in his eyes. Stubble lined his jaw and it was obvious the man had been up all night. "It was unexpected, to be certain sir." Keper nodded and joined him at the guard rail.

"If you don't mind me saying so, you seem more perturbed than happy at this mornings action."

Morden sighed and visibly sagged. "To be honest, I can't bring myself to believe it. I've fought the forces of the warp three times and not once was it so... simple." The Shas'O said nothing and for the first time, Morden could see a little of the Tau commander's age on his face. A few sly wrinkles next to his eyes, a slight greying around the mouth.

"If I am to be equally honest, I am also surprised. Based upon the few prior encounters we've had with these Chaos worshippers and the many pieces of information we've gleamed from men such as yourself and captured Imperial records, I'd expected a more frenzied and drawn out fight." Morden said nothing as he looked back at the report in his hand.

"What you hold there," he continued, "should be the beginning and end of it. Minus the mopping up of course. We have identified another landing zone in proximity to the outer suburbs, but it's significantly smaller and now its cut off from reinforcements, can be reduced at our leisure."

"Perhaps." The word was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Keper smiled as he saw the man go rigid once again.

"Be at peace my friend, this is no formal briefing."

"Thank you sir, I meant no disrespect." The Shas'O nodded his understanding.

"But, I still think we should be on our guard. This won't be over until the last Chaos tainted vashla is dead."

"On that Gue'vesa'ui, we both agree."

* * *

Dakar could hear bolter fire. Lots of bolter fire. Out of the shattered steel teeth of the ruined hulks stormed vengeance incarnate. In perfect unison the Kroot wheeled to face the new threat as they began to die.

Up on the rise the pack leader was firing down at some target they could not see, spitting energy rounds in a near hopeless attempt to slow the oncoming tide. The first World Eater erupted through a cluster of fallen stanchions to Dakar's right, his dual chain swords gleaming a hellish bronze in the morning sun. The closest Kroot turned to face him, but was shredded before he'd even properly glimpsed his killer. Teeth chewed through the xeno's muscled midriff and neck, before the Astartes wrenched the body in two with contemptuous ease.

Three of the aliens cried in alarm and began to fire at the gladiator as he made for another victim, who was howling gleefully as he charged. Just as they were finding their range they disappeared in a red mist as the bolter fire Dakar had heard moments earlier kicked into high gear once again. Mass reactive rounds blew them apart as the second marine emerged out of the smoke. Desperately the Kroot leader called for his hunters to withdraw as he returned inconsequential fire at the berserk fury who was reaping a horrendous toll down on the crater floor.

As another Kroot disintegrated under the heavy-bolter's fire, the dual axes were finding yet more victims to feed their hunger. All pretence of resistance forgotten, the xenos fled. Some made it, many more didn't. Running up the incline towards their leader and safety, the remaining aliens reared back in horror from the monstrosity which came storming towards them.

Without breaking stride The Wise crested the hill and crushed the Kroot standing there with his very bulk. Bowled over, he felt the thing's hollow bones break under his tread and eyes explode from its skull. The scream it gave out made the Nails sing as he laid into those left standing. In a brave show of defiance the last handful of warriors rallied themselves and counter charged the blood red, bronzed nightmare. They died all the same. Rending left and right with his chain sword, The Wise batted aside the Kroot's blades as nothing more than a nuisance.

The first he killed by driving the sharpened pommel of his sword through its skull. With the next, as it let out a shrill battle cry, he ripped the xeno's arm from its socket and as it stumbled backwards in shock, kicked with such force as too completely pulp its upper body. Massive internal haemorrhaging followed as it bled out staring up at a foreign sky. The Wise had already moved onto his next target.

The third he simply bisected with his chain sword, spraying his armour with stinking arterial blood that cloyed his senses and drove his mind into an even greater frenzy. Grabbing the fallen Kroot's weapon, a puny thing in his gauntleted hand, he savagely cleaved the remaining two warriors in half. Their remains collapsed with a wet thump as he panned the area for any further enemies. None remained and the part of his brain not currently enthralled to the Nails noted his brother's had already gone. Most likely in search of more prey.

In the centre of the clearing slumped his adjutant, bloodied and locked in place by his armour. Not far behind him hung the headless body of an Astartes and The Wise let out a bellowing laugh as he made out the markings on the chest plate. Trexes, finally dead after all these years. Dakar would be pleased he knew. His adjutant's mortal frame positively radiated hatred and disgust whenever the old legionary came near. Breathing heavily as the Nail's influence receded, he seized Dakar's body in one hand and slung it over his shoulder. Alive or dead, it did not matter. His service ended only by his master's word.


	3. Unknown Contact

_Hi guys, apologies for the delay. I really appreciate the reviews and will aim to get the next chapter out quicker if I can._

Unknown Contact

Sprinting down a branching side alley the woman ducked into a doorway and waited. A second later she could hear the sound of booted feet and curt commands. The majority faded into the distance as her pursuers split up into the labyrinthine blocks of tenements, but not all. By her estimation three men remained and they were coming closer, their searchlights puncturing the darkness around her hideaway as they advanced.

Steadying her breathing, she focused her mind as she had been taught to do by her master. Relegating all external stimuli to a pinprick of background distraction she reached out towards the approaching soldiers. Each of their minds pulsed like beacons in the emptiness of the alleyway, sharp and ready for action at the slightest provocation.

With a learned deftness she stroked the thoughts of each of the men in turn, careful to leave no imprint. Not to avoid discovery, but the sickness radiating from each of their minds like a fever dream. _Corruption._ Suppressing the bile which rose up at the back of her throat, she was about to withdraw when she found what she was looking for. She stepped out of the doorway and smiled at her would be killers. They had just enough time to register their surprise before the harsh retorts of a shotgun turned the two leading PDF troopers' heads into ruins.

Blood and bone shards exploded in every direction, yet the woman stood unfazed. Her grey eyes hard and cold. Horrified at what he had done the third man stared at the gun in his hands as the woman in a black body glove walked almost nonchalantly by. The chaos she had caused completely at odds with the sweetness radiating from her heart shaped face. "The Inquisition thanks you," she whispered in his ear and buried a blade in his chest. He died without a sound.

* * *

Twenty levels below, located in the old commercia district, the night had gotten off to a bad start for Morden and his men. All across the perimeter the traitor PDF had initiated a process of harrying raids and skirmishes in an attempt to disrupt the final assault they knew must be coming. So far they'd managed to keep them contained with the forces to hand, his auxiliaries being ideally suited to the house to house and street fighting which typified hive warfare.

Elsewhere however, Kroot carnivore reserves were being pulled into the line to offset the Tau fire teams. It was a drain on manpower that while far from fatal, was irritating high command no end. Especially with the despatch of forces to pinch off the last of the Chaos toe hold still present outside the hive. Morden had listened to Shas'el Rayn wax lyrical for five minutes about the futility and strategic redundancy of the attacks earlier in the night. After all, hadn't he vanquished the "true threat" less than 24 hours previously? In the end, Morden had cut the line.

The memory still brought a smile to his face as he traded fire with a squad of PDF in a dilapidated guild hall. Against the south wall hung a faded banner depicting the Maxon coat of arms, the hive's eponymous ruling house. A shattered star in the grip of the Aquila. Given the Maxon's new allegiance, Morden supposed they'd be in need of another.

Ducking behind one of the many sales booths and stalls set up throughout the room, he nodded to his comms specialist, "Anything to report?" Private Vannick had been with Morden since the Guard. A heavy set brute with steel teeth he looked nothing like the finest vox operator Morden had ever met. The joke in the regiment had been he attracted signals with his molars. Quite frankly, he wouldn't have been surprised if they did.

"We're getting a support request from Shas'la Hind, but I can't pin down the coordinates." The frustration on the man's face was obvious as he manipulated the controls of his caster. It was Guard issue, albeit modified for Tau channels and at that moment it was issuing an incomprehensible screed of static. Consulting his field map, Morden could see they were only six blocks east of Hind's position. "Give that up," he said, "we're going to them."

* * *

Whatever was out there had come up on them fast. Five minutes before, Shas'la Van'la Hind and his fire team had stationed themselves in a shopfront overlooking a large square dedicated to some imperial dignitary or another. The remains of his statue capped a weapons chipped column at its centre, with his cracked visage staring disapprovingly down at the invaders. It was a perfect position by Hind's estimation, with clear lines of sight for over a quarter of a mile in either direction. Nothing should have been able to sneak up on them, especially in one piece. Yet it had.

His suits targeting system had detected movement, but couldn't find the source as he had brought his pulse rifle up to his shoulder. Everything appeared quiet and were it not for his entire team reporting the same sensor ghost, he'd have dismissed it as random interference. Looking out into the square he saw nothing, tracked nothing and heard nothing.

All except the flaming sword now powering towards his lookout position. Flinging himself sideways he managed to dodge the blade, but the same could not be said of his weapon. The spinning sword cleaved through the upper barrel, leaving a perfectly clean and glowing wound. Instinctually, Hind tossed the useless rifle aside and drew his side arm as his entire fire team opened up at something outside.

It saved his life. For while extremely stable when compared to their human counterparts, plasma was plasma and with its containment systems breached the rifle's core chamber overloaded. The blinding flash vaporised everything in the immediate vicinity, throwing the Shas'la clear across the room. Through his armour he felt bones break as he impacted the far wall.

Out in the adjoining street their Devilfish troop transport awoke its burst cannon and prowled forwards on its anti grav projectors. With access to the hover tank's scanner suite the pilot quickly picked up the target that was currently alluding Hind and his men. The under slung cannon came to life in a hail of energy rounds, chewing up the rockcrete as they pursued the sensor return across the square.

As it dodged behind the column the pilot raked its base with fire, blowing large chunks of marble in every direction. Most of the area was now occluded by dust as the burst cannon scythed through the murk, seemingly always a second behind its target. Frustrated, the pilot brought the Devilfish further into the square and against procedure, deactivated his comms. The squad's incessant calls were becoming irritating.

He was the best of the best and this was clearly beyond the simple infantry. Pushing his engines to medium thrust he edged out of the dust cloud and spied his target almost immediately. Whatever it was, he'd never seen anything like it. A hunched figure, perhaps seven feet tall when one included the horns protruding from its head, it's flesh was a mottled red; while from its mouth hung an elongated and forked tongue. Its sickly yellow eyes were fixed on the advancing transport as it flexed its empty hands.

The thing was clearly wounded, something akin to blood flowing from its side and leg but it showed no fear. Instead it let out a horrendous roar of defiance. A sound that penetrated the cockpit of the Devilfish and the pilot's headset, bursting blood vessels in his eyes and ears. Without another thought he orientated the burst cannon and fired. The sudden urge to kill overwhelmed his senses, filtering his world down to a single point; a single, hateful target.

From the top floor of the shop, Shas'la Hind watched the shadowy battle play out. The cannon tore into the space where the creature had been to find only empty air. Hind had seen the thing move this time, its actions sluggish compared to the pre-natural speed which typified its earlier attacks. Was that the right word? The Fire Warrior was quite sure they'd have all been dead if the thing had wanted them to be. It had owned the initiative.

Down below, the transport was tracking for a target and Hind tried to raise the pilot. Either they were being jammed or the arrogant vashla had deactivated his comms. In any case, he was on his own. A realisation that didn't stop Hind calling out a warning as the next few seconds played out. Still unsure of its target's location, the Devilfish bumped softly forwards and came to rest but five metres from the column's base.

As such, it completely missed the second creature lurking above, clinging to the statue's front like a malignant growth. Raising his squad Hind was about to direct fire up through the ground level murk when the entire top half of the statue broke away, severed by a burning sword gripped in the thing's clawed hand.

Toppling end over end the marble torso plummeted like a vengeful comet into the Develfish's cockpit, instantly killing the pilot and sending the machine careening across the square. Its engines suddenly at maximum the transport buried itself in another store front, engines wailing as they tore the chassis apart. The explosion came as a sweet relief to the sound of squealing metal, collapsing the majority of the building in a fireball that only added to the dust and chaos in the square. A pregnant silence reigned throughout Hind's command. "Everyone get ready," he ordered, "they'll be coming for us next."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the first beast descended from the heavens like some debased angel of myth. Weeping blood from multiple wounds it towered above the Shas'la and even through his helmet he could smell the sulphuric tang of another world clinging to its flesh. With contemptuous ease it flicked his proffered pistol aside, shattering the bones in his upper arm, and then stalked across the room to its fallen weapon.

As its claws wrapped around the hilt the blade burst to life, fire dripping from its serrated edges. Almost calmly, it turned back to Hind who sat crumpled on the floor cradling his disabled appendage and let out a blood curdling laugh. He could hear feet on the stairs below and for the first time in his life found himself praying. For rescue. For salvation or simply a release from the pain. Who he was praying to he had no idea, but regardless they did not answer. As from the stairwell emerged the second beast, the daemon he now understood, and in its claws dangled the limp body of his second in command. With a savage cry it cast the corpse at his feet, the sword came down and the world exploded.


	4. The Hammer Falls

The Hammer Falls

Completely knocked to the ground in the wake of the blinding flash, Hind could hear the sounds of battle all around him. A lasrifle kicked somewhere to his right, while towering over him came the baroque call of a bolter. All the while the daemons screamed and very carefully, he managed to lift his head to take in the majority of the room. Flailing madly the injured daemon was ablaze, its face contorted in agony as witch lightening drove it to its knees. With its arms spread wide in unholy benediction, its head ruptured in a howling whirl of warp energy.

A call of utter hatred which made Hind's ears bleed tore the air, as the second monster recovered its senses and advanced on the source of its partner's destruction. Unmoved, the man went to meet it. Bolt rounds consecrated and inscribed within the halls of the Ecclesiarchal palace on Terra itself tore righteous chunks from the daemon's form. Issuing from barrels built into the man's forearms, they coughed streams of fire with every ejection. Flinching backwards from the assault, the daemon brought its sword up to parry the blows which followed, as the man powered forwards on hydraulic legs.

If Inquisitor Ptolomus Machion had still possessed the ability to smile beneath his iron mask, he would have. As snarling like the wounded beast it was the daemon was taken aback by the absolute fury of the mortal assailing its god given form. For the man wielded no sword with which to block the warp spawned blade, but rather battered it aside with his fists alone. Every ceramite finger was etched with runes of resistance, destruction and unbinding and powered by the pistons of the hallowed Machine Cult of Mars.

Swinging its blade once again, it froze in as close to horror as such a creature could comprehend. Hind looked on in awed surprise as Ptolomus not only deflected the blade, but gripped it in his hand. The flames guttered and died as rancid smoke spilled from between the Inquisitor's fingers. Motors and gears cried out as the warp spawn tried to free itself, man and monster locked in a contest of strength and wills.

Ptolomus's left fist ended the struggle with a mighty blow to the thing's face, the pistons recoiling and depressing at such a rate the daemon barely had time to register any relief before the next punch crumpled its skull further. With a plaintive yell the sword was finally wrenched from its grip and in one fluid motion, driven through its torso. Its mass already leaking away from its wounds the daemon collapsed to the ground and with less than a sound, ceased to be. Ending anticlimactically, as nothing more than a scorched outline on the bare floorboards.

* * *

They were coming. Putting aside the auspex returns and the reports of his men, The Wise could taste it as surely as the blood on his tongue. Helm removed, he stood as a testament to Khorne, an amalgam of scar tissue and incorrectly healed wounds. However, from the depths of his sunken sockets an intelligence beyond any of his brothers still glittered. It was this cunning that had lead him to command of first his former squad mates, then company and finally, war band.

Blessed with the knowledge to better harvest skulls for his one true lord, but cursed to see the madness that had consumed his Legion. Located on the outer edge of the hive in a former mining settlement, The Wise had gathered all of his forces to him, fortifying the position with a labyrinth of mines, gun pits and barbed wire. It was a formidable obstacle, dominating the lower out hab suburbs that forced any attacker to advance up the craggy rise and then across a jagged boulder strewn no man's land. To the rear stood the mine itself, burrowing deep into the mountainside and providing invaluable flank protection.

Any enemy would have to face them head on and breach the 180 degree perimeter using brute force. It was satisfactory to their needs and for certain, he had no intention of dying here on... The Wise chuckled, a low sound like that of an ailing engine. The Nails might not have taken his sanity, but his memory was far from immune. This world would burn, whatever its name.

From the mine came another explosion, as it had every ten minutes for the past five hours. Passing through the trench network and the lobotomised servitors tasked with its construction, The Wise approached the figure whose orders they were in the process of executing. "Honoured adept," he partially bowed. The man before him was ostensibly human in that he still retained a handful of features synonymous with an unaltered homo-sapien.

As tall as the Astartes his torso sat upon six mechanical legs, while from his back emerged a plethora of mechandrites, tools and manipulators. His three glowing eyes regarded The Wise for a moment before returning to a data slate he had been consulting, a ghost of a smile playing across his all too human mouth. "Centurion Khost, Second Company, World Eaters. Unofficial moniker, "The Wise." It has been exactly forty five minutes and twenty seven seconds since your last inquiry."

The Nails stirred in irritation but Khost mastered his temper. He was well used to Adept Methusalon's idiosyncrasies. "I apologise for any interruption, but time grows short and the enemy approaches. I must know, will we be ready?"

Putting the slate aside Methusalon paused in consideration. "It is my estimation that we have a 74.67% likelihood of success." The Wise inclined his head in thanks and turned to leave. "That is, should there be no more unnecessary vocalised distractions." Khost stayed his tongue and marched away, lest his next "distraction" take the form of something distinctly more physical.

* * *

The synchronicity of battle was, by Shas'el Rayn's estimation, the purest form of perfection. The flow and ebb of combat, carefully orchestrated and designed, exemplifying the superiority of the Greater Good. So far these Chaos raiders had amounted to little more than a nuisance and were it not for the orders of Tau strategic doctrine, Rayn would have been happy to leave them to rot in their encampment.

Approaching the outer edge of the hive, he checked on the deployment of his forces. 15,000 troops had been seconded to his command by the Shas'O, alongside his own Crisis Battlesuit squads, Kroot warriors and human auxiliaries. There had been some unease among the Gue'vesa at facing their fallen kindred. Rayn could understand this, albeit from an academic position. Tau after all, did not fight Tau. But as he checked his holo map, he could see they were already in their assigned positions and awaiting orders.

If he were honest with himself, Rayn too was far from pleased by the shape of the battle to come. Unknown interference from the mine was distorting their targetting scanners, leaving them without a clear picture of the enemy's dispositions and to make matters worse the boulder strewn terrain belied the use of grav tanks. His men forced to jump off in the city limits and advance on foot.

Meanwhile, only a single road led into the facility proper and he had no doubt it would be well defended. It was going to be an infantry fight through and through, something no Tau warrior relished. But there was no choice. The Greater Good demanded it. Putting aside his concerns, Rayn gave the order. "Taskforce, execute."

* * *

To any other force in the galaxy, the auspex returns they were currently receiving would have made for disheartening news. To The Wise, it was glorious. The xenos had not disappointed him. The Tau had entirely surrounded his position and with a precision the likes he had rarely seen, launched their attack in perfect unity. From between the rocks charged a wall of savage alien beasts, many four times the size of the one The Wise had faced in the tenement building.

Each sported a rider clinging to their backs as they blazed away with a variety of energy based and primitive weaponry. Hundreds of Kroot warriors charged with them, letting out shrill battle cries which set the defenders' hairs on end. Dozens died where they stood as the attackers found their range, cut down from the firing step. Lasfire and poorly maintained stubbers responded to the Kroot volleys, seemingly confused and without direction.

Kroot Hounds surged ahead of their handlers, baying for blood, their lithe forms wending between rocks and rounds with equal aplomb. All the while the defenders floundered and the alien hoard came on. A mutant to The Wise's right, a filthy shotgun gripped in its hands let out a horrified shriek as a harpoon took its ear off, before collapsing in a heap. Spasming violently the thing's fingers pulled the trigger, the rounds deflecting harmlessly off his pauldron. Gripping the spear The Wise examined the tip.

A blue ichor and foreign stench overrode the smell of blood and dirt. Poison of some kind no doubt. Interesting. He watched in fascination as grenades trailing a blue, gaseous tail rained into the surrounding trenches and his men either screamed their last or exposed themselves to the enemy. Whether to gain release or in derangement Khost couldn't say, but the effect was impressive. Almost too impressive.

Now well advanced into the no man's land and beyond any cover, The Wise waited a moment more to allow the enemy host to heave into near point blank range. "Blood for the Blood God!" The call was echoed all along the network of trenches, by man, mutant and Astartes alike. Mortal lascannon and machine gun nests that had remained silent came to life, spraying a torrent of fire into the enemy ranks, scything down dozens of the greater beasts who in their death throws crushed their lesser kin beneath them. Entire squads ceased to exist as the heavy bolters of the World Eaters added their own percussive bass to the orchestra of destruction.

The closest xenos made it to within a metre of the perimeter before being disintegrated under a withering enfilade so potent it left nothing identifiable behind. Rather, a wall of pulped meat and bone began to build in front of each hard point before the enemy quit the field in shambles. The Nails were positively singing at the annihilation and The Wise had to force down the urge to charge. While he had brought only the most stable of his brothers, he could hear many of them muling and screaming over the vox, desperate to be let loose. "Stand fast!" he grunted. "We'll get our chance."

* * *

The first wave broke, just as he had expected it would. Ignoring the Kroot as they fell back in disarray, Shas'el Rayn instead focussed on the data now streaming in front of his eyes. His Pathfinders had done excellent work as the enemy had vented its ire on the most obvious targets. Multiple hard points and trench positions had been identified and were now being fed to his Battlesuits and Fire Warriors. Without orbital data he had been forced to resort to cruder methods. The Kroot Shapers would likely be enraged, but that was a problem for the Water Caste to smooth over. He was here to win a battle. With calculated precision he relayed orders to his two squad mates, powered his XV8 Crisis Battlesuit's plasma rifle and activated his jet pack. Now the real fight could begin.


	5. Servants of Flesh and Metal

Servants of Flesh and Metal

Inquisitor Ptolomus regarded the injured Tau at his feet. Its armour was cracked, its helm split and arm broken, yet still it tried to rise. Admirable. "Cyus, see to him." His bodyguard nodded, slinging his las rifle over his shoulder. A bulky man of indeterminate age, Cyus drew a syringe from his combat webbing and knelt beside the alien.

"Stop right there." Morden and his company had surrounded the building, arriving just in time to see the first daemon's impressive destruction and now he and seven of his best men faced off against the monster's killer. Cyus froze and looked to his master. Ptolomus seemed unmoved, but behind his mask it was impossible to truly tell.

"Welcome Colonel Morden," he offered, his voice almost human. Morden quickly realised it was a machine imitation, an attempt to recreate what the man had obviously lost. Looking him up and down however, he had clearly gained as much again. Morden was surprised by the use of his former rank, but he didn't let it show. The moment he'd set eyes on the figure he'd known what he was and what that symbol hanging around his neck denoted. "Inquisitor," he rejoined. Two could play at that game.

"Could I encourage you to lower your weapons, Colonel? It would be unfortunate if an itchy trigger finger prevailed over this temporary calm." The implied threat was clear, but Morden was no fool. He was a traitor. Less than human and the Inquisitor wouldn't hesitate to execute him and his men with or without provocation. "Forgive me sir, but there's no chance in all the hells of the warp I'm giving up my advantage." Ptolomus tilted his head in puzzlement.

"And what, pray tell, would that be?" Nervously, the former Guardsmen looked to their commander and froze. At his throat was levelled a razor thin blade, its power field mercifully deactivated. A figure emerged from the shadows, uncoiling from the darkness. Tall and lithe, encased in purple and white armour of alien construction, the being offered Morden a small smile. A beautiful smile. An utterly inhuman smile. "Lower your weapons, mon keigh."

Morden did as he was told and his men followed suit, all the while staring fixedly at the newcomer. The wraith sword withdrew and he let out an involuntary sigh. Ptolomus stepped forwards, recapturing their attention. "By order of the Imperium of Man and the blessed Emperor who's domain in which we dwell, I hereby declare you all traitoris maximus. The penalty for which is death."

Morden gulped. "Oh."

* * *

The second wave struck hard and fast. From the sky, Crisis Battlesuits descended directly into the trench network, their missile pods and plasma cannons laying down a bristling hailstorm that scoured all beneath it. Covered by smoke cannisters, Fire Warriors loped up the hillside using the rocks for cover, tracing the quickest routes through the chaotic maze thanks to the excellent scouting performed by the Pathfinder teams. Here and there lay the bodies of their allies, Kroot warriors and their steeds paving the way to the enemy's doorstep.

Unease permeated many in the ranks as they looked on at the product of their commander's pragmatism, as silent eyes judged their passing. Up ahead they could see the breaks in the boulder field and the strikes already in progress. Carefully coordinated, each route terminated in a cleared section of the enemy perimeter; a beach head already in the hands of the Battlesuit cadres.

Shas'el Rayn had lead his team into the heart of the fight located between a cluster of interlocking pillboxes. Every blast of his cannon and accompanying venting spoke to the destruction of another minor bastion, another gun pit. Chaos worshipers rushed him from all sides, some armed with nothing more than axes and cleavers. His men cut them down.

Rayn allowed himself a snort of derision. These were poor specimens he thought, immolating another group of cultists who stormed towards him. His teammates' flamers roared as they cleared another trench of human detritus and the smell of cooking meat filled the air.

Shas'la Van'la Osha Kais had served with Shas'el Rayn for over ten years, seven campaigns and dozens of battles. He was, by every estimation an expert Battlesuit pilot. His death took exactly five and a half seconds.

In the first he registered movement in the fog thrown up by the battle, in the second he locked onto its source and primed his plasma rifle to fire. In the third he received a confirmation on the emerging silhouette. Human, Astartes, threat designation maximum.

In the fourth, he fired, the scorching blue light burning away the dust like a newly birthed star. _Target lost_ , his display informed him as it tried to re-aquire. In the fifth he heard the warning of his commander and in the last half a second, felt the warmth of his own blood dripping from his mouth and the spear protruding from his chest. It withdrew with a sizzling snick. His suit crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Altark, Thrice Chosen of Khorne, First Blade of the Warband of The Wise bellowed his praise to the Blood God as his latest opponent fell. Without breaking stride he set upon the Shas'el's men like an instrument of pure devastation, the power glaive in his hands purring with every life it took. A squad of Fire Warriors sprayed a disciplined volley of fire in his direction as they took positions in the outer trench network.

Altark laughed, his twisted daemonic helm weeping blood from its eyes. More enemy soldiers were flooding the area as they attempted to sure up their beach head. He stormed into them, hacking left and right with brutal swings of his weapon. A Tau warrior, braver than the others, charged him using his rifle like a club. Altark snapped it like a toy before cutting the xeno's head from its body. Rampaging through the trenches with reckless abandon, he reaped a terrible toll, driving the now fleeing warriors before him. Before a shot to the midsection brought him to a halt, then a second and a third.

Having finally freed himself from a melee with a mob of cultists, Shas'el Rayn went to meet the true threat. Interposing himself between the Astartes and his broken troops, he pumped a series of shots into Altark's torso. Super heated plasma melted through ceramite, penetrating flesh and organ, cooking his innards. Steam and blood vomited from his mouth as he died, a river of fluids haemorrhaging from his eyes as his body spasmed and burned. His body toppled onto its back, finally still, but steaming.

 _That's for Osha you bastard,_ Rayn thought. Signalling the rallying fire teams he set about restoring order to that section of the line as he filtered through reports of similar assaults all along the perimeter, most ongoing. "This is Shas'el Van'la Rayn to all..." The glaive took his suit from behind, slicing clean through his plasma cannon arm. Instinctually, he activated his jump jets before a heavy blow through him forwards and another pirouetted him like a drunken dancer. Spinning 180 degrees, he could barely believe what he was seeing.

Mutilated and bleeding Altark had regained his feet, the daemon mask now contorted in a mask of utter rage. Fire licked along his armour, sealing wounds and reworking ceramite. Yet worst of all was the laughter. The insane, demented hollering of the monster now staring with terrible purpose at his would be murderer. "Is that all little Tau?" Altark boomed, his voice a multilayered nightmare. To Rayn it sounded as if a chorus of beings were talking all at once, each fighting the others for dominance. "I have walked the paths of a thousand lifetimes, eaten the hearts of kings and betrayed a god. What are you to that?"

The glaive moved as if under its own direction, springing forwards to pierce the Battlesuit's armour at the shoulder joint. Alarms blared in Rayn's ears as he tried to regain control, tried to fight back. But it was all for nought; with both his weapons disabled and jet back damaged, his options were fatally limited. The glaive withdrew and laughing still, Altark prepared the final blow.

Rayn didn't see what saved him, or more to the point, hear what saved him. From out of the rock field there came a mighty roar, a cry of animalistic bloodlust. Altark paused, recognising in that call the power of an apex predator. A worthy foe. Overriding any sense of caution or tactical sense the Nails bit deep, demanding greater carnage. Rayn already forgotten, he let out an unholy scream of his own.

Charging from between two gigantic boulders the Great Knarloc came on like a Tyrranex of ancient Terra. Its small mind already driven to a frenzy by the power goads of its former rider and the smell of blood on the air, it cared little for who or what got in its way. Identifying the Chaos warrior already making for it, the Knarloc changed its course and in an impressive leap forwards, came down directly before the Astartes and his brandished blade. Slicing upwards, Altark aimed to take the beast in the throat. Yet in a move of surprising agility not only did the creature evade the glaive, but in its rage smashed it entirely from his grip.

For the first time in ten centuries of battle Altark froze, stunned by a moment of combat his daemonic essence had failed to anticipate. This was no warp spawn, no servant of the False Emperor. It was just an animal and yet now here he stood, disarmed. Looking up into the creature's eyes, for an instant he saw his own hunger reflected back at him. Then the jaws yawned wide and Altark, Thrice Chosen of Khorne, First Blade of the Warband of The Wise, made his last dedication to the Lord of Skulls.

* * *

Deep beneath the surface of the mountain, Tech Adept Methusalon ignored the dull thumps and explosions emanating from the perimeter. His work was here. A computational struggle of staggering magnitude, it far outweighed the crude form of battle currently being waged outside. Already, he had burned through seventy nine cogitator stacks and hundreds of slaved servitor brains.

The puzzle was proving an even greater challenge than he had posited. Located at the bottom of a newly blasted tunnel adjoining the primary mineshaft, Methusalon stood surrounded by bare rock, snaking cables and arcane machinery. All of which was currently turned to the challenge centred at the rear of the cavern. A vast portal, large enough to allow the egress of a Warhound Titan, it glowed softly in the machine given light.

Unknowable symbols etched its surface, a runic language that was old before the human race had ever even contemplated travelling to the stars. Methusalon was close, he could feel it. According to his internal data sets the chances of success had near quadrupled in the last hour alone and now with the war outside closing in, the necessity had grown into an absolute. A single point of potential failure, it would not defeat the true Machine Cult. The very notion caused a minor feedback loop in his sub processors, akin to what an unaugmented human might describe as frustration.

"Preliminary activation achieved," droned one of his still functioning servitors. Around him lay the others, slack jawed and dead eyed. Their brains fried within their skulls. The cost of knowledge was ever high Methusalon thought, as he continued his work. Soon however, all would be vindicated by his genius.


End file.
